


Nollaig Shona

by ponderinfrustration



Category: Le Fantôme de l'Opéra | Phantom of the Opera & Related Fandoms, Le Fantôme de l'Opéra | Phantom of the Opera - Gaston Leroux
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Christmas, Christmas Fluff, Connemara, F/F, Multi, Polyamory
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-12-28
Updated: 2019-12-28
Packaged: 2021-02-19 06:17:07
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,076
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22006483
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ponderinfrustration/pseuds/ponderinfrustration
Summary: Last year, Christine and Sorelli spent Christmas in Maynooth. This year they are in Connemara, and it is soft, and sweet, and they only wonder if Philippe will come.
Relationships: Christine Daaé/La Sorelli, Christine Daaé/La Sorelli/Comte Philippe de Chagny
Kudos: 3





	Nollaig Shona

**Author's Note:**

> Title is Irish for Happy Christmas.  
> An entry for notaghost3's annual Christmas one-shot challenge.

Last year, they spent Christmas in Maynooth, in the apartment over the courtyard. They had dinner and drinks and mused quietly on the empty streets outside, hardly a car daring to venture out, and laughed at the kids trying out new bikes, remembering when they were like that, once upon a time. Erik and Nadir dropped in, bearing bottles of wine, and they sat before the crackling fire, the heat sinking into their bones, and didn’t say very much of anything at all.

This year Erik and Nadir are in London, working on a new project. And after the busy-ness of the year, after the work and the writing and editing and research, they have decided to spend Christmas quietly, here in Connemara.

They have made it known that they have no interest in receiving any callers. Only Philippe is allowed, as he always is, though whether he will come or not is impossible to tell.

(He has been adventuring, photographing, in one of his moods where being alone is what he craves, and at times like this it is best to leave him be. But if he does come, there will always be a place for him, and he will always be welcome in their bed, to lie on the other side of Sorelli, where he always sleeps the best.)

They have their gifts to each other wrapped and settled beneath the tree, the lights twinkling soft and gold. For a little while, in the evening, they played old carols on the record player, while she fixed the fire, and Sorelli prepared tomorrow’s dinner (a light dinner, no need to go to any trouble, when there is only themselves). She sang, softly, along, breathing in the turf smoke that reminds her of being small, that reminds her of sitting on her dad’s knee at Christmas, as he told her stories, and how she would cuddle into him and fall asleep there, when she was the tiniest little girl, too excited about Santa to go to bed.

‘Es ist ein Ros entsprungen’ has always been her favourite, and she might not be very good at the violin, but she can still play that, even now.

She went outside for a little while, just to think, just to be, and watched the waves down on the shoreline crash against the shale. She might have made some sketches, maybe, if it had not been drizzling, might have found some little things to bring home to Sorelli, but the pebbles were damp and cold beneath her fingers, and the grasses are soft with age before the spring, and there are no flowers, now. So she did not bring anything home with her, except the beads of raindrops in her hair, and the scent of the sea breeze, but sometimes, at times like this, those are the very best gifts.

The warmth of the kitchen enfolded her when she came back home, and she breathed it in deep and slow. Sorelli was waiting for her, with a towel to take the damp from her hair, and a mug of cocoa that, when she tasted it, had just the slightest edge of chartreuse. Just a little, just enough.

There will not be snow this year, but the rain has dried to a clear dark sky, the twinkling of a multitude of stars, and she sighed out the window to feel the cool on her cheeks, and glanced heavenwards to see Orion, friend of her childhood days, and Sirius, ever faithful, low in the sky for to rise. And those she did sketch, with the silver of the still water beneath the moon, as Sorelli set the record player for something soft and classical, and stoked the fire. And Christine cannot name the feeling in her heart, not tonight, but it is something safe, something satisfied and peaceful, to be here, and to have Sorelli here, and to share this, with her.

(And it does not matter if Philippe does not come. There will be time, sometime, to share it with him, and it will be just as dear, to see his eyes shine so blue, to see his camera, and the moments he will capture, and feel his fingertips light upon her skin.)

And tomorrow is Christmas, but tonight is the night of waiting, of hoping. Of watching the sky and thinking of a little boy, who might have been born, more than two thousand years ago, but then again might not have been, and it doesn’t matter much to her, one way or the other, but the idea of him, the thought of what he stands for, of love, and hope, and joy— and those are things she has found for herself, in Sorelli, and her smile, and her kiss, and she finds, even after everything, that she still wants to believe, some part of her, still wants to believe in something greater than she is, than they are, wants to believe that she is not so very small, after all.

And last Christmas Eve they spent in the Roost, dancing and laughing and kissing and holding onto each other in the middle of a crowd of people, and she remembers nuzzling into Sorelli’s shoulder, and catching sight of Erik and Nadir with their eyes closed, holding each other close and swaying as if they were the only ones in the world. And this year they just have each other, and Sorelli’s hand is soft cradling the back of her neck, the sigh of the wind their only interruption, and it is perfect, or as close to perfect as they will find. And she draws Sorelli closer to her, and kisses her, lightly, on the lips, and there is dried sea lavender sitting on the windowsill, and a single sprig of holly, and whether or not Philippe comes, he will be in their hearts, and always welcome, to step into their arms.

(He will come, she knows. Maybe not tonight, but by morning he will be here, with a smile for each of them, and an apology, for how long it’s taken him.)

(“I was just a little delayed,” he will whisper, the dampness in his eyes, and then he will kiss her, or maybe he will kiss Sorelli first, but it will not matter, not when he has come.)

And looking up into the deep brown of Sorelli’s eyes, she knows she would not have it any other way.


End file.
